The Recording Stopped.
“Why does she keep recording us?”
Silence.
A slow creak from somewhere near the bedroom door.
“Because she thinks it will save her.”
Soft breathing fills the recording for several seconds.
Then another voice, quieter this time:
“Should we tell her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
A long pause.
“Because she still thinks this is her apartment.”
“What if she wakes him up?”
“Then that’s her problem,” the deeper voice growled.
The recording dissolved into soft rustling after that.
Then silence.
I just sat there staring at my phone while every muscle in my body went rigid. My blood felt ice cold. I replayed the clip three separate times, hoping I had misheard it somehow.
Him.
Not me.
Again.
I don’t know why that detail terrifies me so much, but it does.
After listening to the recording, I finally decided to do something I should have done days ago.
I bought a security camera.
Part of me is terrified of what I might see on it.
Another part is even more afraid that I’ll see nothing at all.
At least if the camera captures something, I’ll know I’m not losing my mind. I’ll have proof that this is real.
Right?
Maybe ignorance really is bliss.
I spent most of the afternoon setting the camera up in my bedroom. Even while I was mounting it to the wall, I kept second-guessing myself. Every sound in the apartment made me stop and look over my shoulder.
Still, the camera is running now.
I programmed it to record between 3:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m.—the same hour everything always seems to happen.
So now I wait.
It’s 8:04 a.m.
I slept through the night somehow, though I don’t remember falling asleep.
The sleep app recorded movement again. Mostly the same sounds as before—soft scurrying, dragging footsteps, whispers too faint to fully understand.
But the camera…
The camera caught something.
At exactly 3:12 a.m., the bedroom door slowly opened by itself.
And then a shadow entered the room.
Not walked.
Entered.
It moved smoothly across the floor without any real motion, gliding through the darkness toward my bed. The shape was impossibly tall, thin enough that it almost looked stretched. Its arms hung too low at its sides, long enough to nearly touch the floor.
Almost human.
But wrong.
Completely wrong.
I froze when I saw it stop beside my bed.
The timestamp continued counting upward while the figure stood perfectly still, staring down at me as I slept.
Then, slowly—
It turned its head toward the camera.
The recording ended there.
No static. No glitching. No gradual cutoff.
Just black.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears while I stared at the frozen frame on my laptop screen. The timestamp read 3:12:47 a.m.
Then nothing.
The camera was supposed to record until 4:00 a.m.
I checked the settings three different times to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake, but everything was exactly how I left it. Full battery. Plenty of storage. Recording schedule still active.
So why did it stop the exact moment that thing looked at the camera?
I don’t know what scares me more anymore—the recordings, the whispers, or the possibility that whatever is in this apartment knows I’m watching it now.
I haven’t gone back into my bedroom since seeing the footage.
Every time I look down the hallway, I keep imagining that tall shape standing there in the dark, waiting for me to look away.
I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.
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